When you find your calling, it is an amazing moment.
But then you must organize your life to follow that calling.
Like being a writer. You know as a child that is what you are destined to be.
Still, your like may have taken detours and now you are back to fulfill your destiny.

Distantly, in a battlefield of blood and echoing cacophony, I hear you calling. Somewhere, you are there. Perhaps in a different time, in different circumstances, we could have been best friends. You are my most important person, and I’m glad to have met you.

I heard her calling my name, I didn’t know where exactly it came from. At this point of the game I’m not sure if I really heard it or t was only in my head. I kept moving forward but her voice suddenly came form another direction. Before I started to get frustrated I stopped for breath.

I sit, listening to the rain. The gentle patter against the glass picks up and I mute the television. I love the sound of the storm as it comes closer and closer. The gentle rumble of thunder hits my eyes and I smile. My eyes flick down to my phone and I sigh. He’s not calling tonight. He’s not calling any night.

calling on the phone. Calling out to someone that might answer, but then again they might not. Bored right now. Not calling anyone. Just typing. Movie: One Missed Call. Scary movie. The bad guy always calling to mess with their prey

I believe calling can be allot of things, like faith. What your calling to do or what your destiny is. Also I think of calling is being on the phone or calling someones name out loud. I think calling is what your suppose to do or be good at it.

If you’re trying to reach someone on the phone, or you’re yelling their name trying to find where they are. Calling means trying to get a hold of someone. It could also mean that someone is calling your number, like at a raffle or something like that.

Calling – what is my calling? I don’t know, but do any of us really know what our calling is? I guess some individuals, gifted with a deep sense of purpose and understanding of their place in the world, can say they know their calling, but what about the rest of us? Are we drifting through our lives, just trying to get by, reeling from life’s knocks and blows, side-stepping the ones we see but getting belted by the ones we don’t?

But what is a calling? Is it to make your mark on your surroundings? Is it to make a difference? But I think we all make a difference, no matter what we do, no matter if we don’t know our calling. We all touch people we come into contact with as we traverse our time on this planet – in a multitude of different ways. That’s what makes the world go round, as the saying goes, human interaction and contact. That’s everyone’s calling in my book.

He wished that his mom hadn’t gotten him a “pay-as-you-go” phone for college. True, people never did call him much, it was mostly just his mom calling him, every Sunday morning at 9. But it meant he had to be stingy during phone calls, ending them with terse good-byes so they didn’t go over 1 minute, because a second beyond 1 was 20 cents. Somehow, talking seemed important to getting friends, and he never really got the hang of talking, except talking about all sorts of trivialities about quirky profs and grade distributions to his mom, who not only endured his conversation, but positively encouraged it.

I’ve been calling out to you for while now, waiting to see if you can hear me. I’m calling out your name, over and over, but you’re just as lost as I am out here. The trees that cave me in turn into concrete, and I’m in a city. Anywhere I’m with you, I’m miles behind.

so oone day mills was calling apple and they were both having a terrible day so they just started talking about their love life. apple told him how she likes his glasses and mills told her how muc her liked her cow.

I am calling out to the heavans for a strange sky. call me whatever you’d like just don’t call me to tell me. call and tell someone else. chances are i have already been called and called that many times before and it is what I already know. Spread the know..share the call. call and tell them what you call me.

Ring, ring, ring and your nerves peak more with every ring. Questions stir in you mind; Will he pick up? What do I say? What if I get his voicemail? It’s always the first call that’s the most nerve racking. The sweating of the palms, shakey voice and self doubt seeks in. Then he picks up and mutters a hello, you answer with a shy, hey. His next reply is said with a smile. The change in vocal pitch gives it away and with it, your nerves cease to be there.

He was calling me, over and over again. Five times. Six. Eleven. Twelve. The screen would light up, and the cell phone would rotate with each vibration before the call went to voicemail. Before the screen even had the chance to fade to black, the buzzing would resume and the screen would glow once more, as he tried again and again and again to reach me.
I could have picked up. But I simply watched, and I waited for him to give up. Twenty-five. Thirty-six. Forty-one. Each attempted call I counted, calculating if every redial measured up how much he loved me, or simply a habitual reflex for his thumb to click the several buttons that made up my phone number. Between every call, I counted the number of seconds before the next one. Three seconds. Then four. After a while, it became a whole minute, and then four minutes and twenty-six seconds. Every second longer I felt his hesitation, every second longer I felt his doubt. Each second longer was his indifference.
I was going to pick up on the sixty-seventh ring. I was going to forgive him. I was going to apologize.
I think he knew this, which is why he stopped calling at sixty-six.

She is always calling me.
She calls me when she is upstairs,
and I am downstairs.
She calls me when she’s in the car.
She calls me, and if I call her back,
she doesn’t answer the phone.
She doesn’t listen to her messages, either,
so she’ll have no idea why I called her
until she decides to call me back,
or until I text her. She is always texting,
even if she doesn’t always answer me.
This is why her phones always break, I guess.

Cat calling echoed along the sidewalk, slopping under her flip flops like a thick black slime which dripped out of their mouths and down her slender ankles. They hooted and she looked at the ground, as if she was inspecting the goop like a familiar friend she had grown to hate.

This lady keeps calling my phone asking for some guy named “Fausto” and I keep telling her it’s the wrong number. She keeps calling. Ugh. I usually write something meaningful, but I just don’t feel like it today. I’m seeing an alpaca today. That is all. :)

TROLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLO is the wild trol call